


Five Arrangements for Better Living Conditions in a Bunker

by donutsandcoffee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Kevin's POV, M/M, POV Outsider, pining!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsandcoffee/pseuds/donutsandcoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The note attached on the top shelf of the refrigerator only says, <i>out to town. Be back in an hour</i>, but Kevin knows Dean is looking for Castiel. </p><p>Dean is always looking for Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Arrangements for Better Living Conditions in a Bunker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coconabanana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconabanana/gifts).



> also posted on tumblr; posted here for organization

**1\. Communication**

The note attached on the top shelf of the refrigerator only says,  _out to town. Be back in an hour,_ but Kevin knows Dean is looking for Castiel. 

Dean is always looking for Castiel.

Not  _literally_ , of course. After the unforecasted meteor shower that turns out to be falling angels, it seems unwise to make rash, unnecessary moves, especially with Sam still recovering from the trials. There were a lot of loud arguments between the brothers—and eye-rolling by Charlie, a sentiment Kevin definitely shares—before they decided to lie low for a while, at least until the whole falling-angels situation becomes much clearer.

Lying low soon unanimously translates into ‘not going out of the bunker unless there’s a dire need for food’, and they develop a habit.

Kevin’s, unsurprisingly, mostly involves the tablets. There are still parts of those that he has not deciphered, and he works on them almost all the time now—one line after another, one symbol at a time as the sky turns from milky blue to pale orange. Every couple of hours he would stand up and pace around the room, counting  _one, two, three_  under his breath until the image of Crowley torturing his mother disappears completely from his mind. Sometimes he doesn’t even get to a hundred. Other times— _often_  times—he counts until he reaches thousands. 

The others tend to leave him be. Charlie is only around on the weekends, typing furiously on her laptop every time Kevin catches sight of her. Sam is mostly resting and researching, stacks of books on angel lore starting to cluster the hallway outside his room. 

And Dean, well. Dean  _mopes_.

There isn’t a word in the English (and Enochian) Language that describes it better. Dean  _mopes_. He has other habits too, sure—he cooks for all of them, does the laundry, and renovates parts of the bunker that need repair. Fine. But Kevin has also seen him more often than not staring into a distance, a frown etched on his feature, like his mind is in another time. Sometimes Dean trails off mid-sentence, as if he just catches himself making a comment to someone who isn’t there.

Kevin knows Dean isn’t one to stay put. He’s a man of action and grand gestures, and it kills him to not be able to do anything. But there’s something more in the way Dean drums his fingers mindlessly on the table, hands jittery and restless, and Kevin suspects it has everything to do with a certain angel. 

Kevin doesn’t want to care. Dean didn’t even blink when Crowley killed Channing. But Castiel saved him from Crowley once, and—well, it’s only fitting that Kevin cares about  _Castiel_.

But now, food.

Kevin rummages through the refrigerator, and sighs when he finds nothing immediately edible. 

 _buy me macs,_  he quickly types a text to Dean.

After a few minutes, his phone rings.

“Seriously?” Dean immediately says when he answers the call, before Kevin can pipe in, “can’t you just cook?” 

“McDonald’s faster,” Kevin says, absentmindedly taking the empty seat at the dining table. “also, your cooking has ruined any other homemade food for me.”

“Hell  _yeah_  it has,” Dean says, pride lacing his voice because he’s mentally  _five_. Kevin rolls his eyes in response, even though he knows nobody can see him. 

Suddenly his stomach growls in protest, and Kevin takes a quick glance at the clock on the wall. “You’re going back soon, right?” He demands as his stomach growls again. “You’ve been out for almost—what, two hours?”

His comment is met with tense silence.

 _He’s got a lead on Castiel,_ Kevin immediately knows. Kevin can practically  _see_ it, the way Dean’s expression closing up, his grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white.

“Look, I—“ Dean stammers; fumbles. For someone who lies for a living, he is exceptionally bad at it when Castiel is involved. “I still have to buy some things, okay?”

“You said one hour, Dean.”

“Kevin,” Dean says carefully. Placating. “You can handle cooking for one more day, right?”

Kevin is not stupid. Kevin is  _far_  from stupid. It isn’t a long time ago that people would describe him as anything  _but_  stupid, and the way Dean’s tone tries to coddle him like he’s a damn  _baby_  never fails to get on his nerves.

Kevin would normally just let it slide, though. He has more important things to get frustrated about, things like his future and the multitudes of biblical tablets and, you know,  _the possible end of the world_. But said tablets also have been extremely hard to crack lately, symbols making less sense than a toddler’s drawing, and for once, Kevin has had enough.

“ _Dean_ ,” Kevin snaps, “I know you’re looking for Castiel.” 

Kevin can hear the sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. 

There’s another silence, and Kevin is really, really tempted to just hang up in the face of this gratuitous display of Dean Winchester Emotional Constipation. There’s only so much frustration one can take in a day, after all.

But he knows how Dean is when it comes to emotional talk, and he chooses to be the better man instead. He always does.

“Look, I’m a big boy, and Sam is sure as hell a big boy too,” He says. “We don’t suddenly drop dead when you are not around for more than an hour.”

“I never said—“

“The  _point is_ ,” Kevin presses, “if you really want to find Castiel,  _go_. This might be the right lead. This might even be your only chance.”

A pause. “Kevin, I—“

“ _Dean_ ,” Kevin says. “ _Go._ ”

And then he hangs up, because even a man familiar with Dean Winchester and his lack of communication skills of the emotional variety can only stand so much.

It’s only after half an hour and two sandwiches that Kevin’s phone vibrates again, signaling a text message.

 _thanks,_  the text says.

It’s not exactly clear and healthy communication, but it’s not Dean Winchester Emotional Constipation either.

Kevin doesn’t push it. 

 

 

-

**2\. Emergency Protocol**

The door slams open with a loud  _BANG_ , echoing through the empty hallways of the bunker, jolting Kevin awake from the table he accidentally fell asleep at.

So much for quiet work space.

Irritated, he storms out of the room towards the source of the noise. He knows Dean has been out to bars almost every night recently, drinking his sorrows away as part of his  _moping_ and only returns—alone—in the morning. Kevin usually ignores it, but only when Dean is quiet. He draws the line at  _this_. That noise was  _loud_.

His complaints die in his lips when he sees the source of the commotion.

Sam is pulling the sofas together in rushed movements, creating a makeshift bed out of them as Dean holds—Kevin feels his stomach lurch in shock— _Castiel_  in a bridal carry, the angel— _fallen_  angel, definitely fallen—bleeds profusely in Dean’s arms, breath short and shallow.

 _What happened,_ he wants to ask, but he is paralyzed in the middle of the frantic, hurried motions, and he simply watches as Dean lowers Castiel on the sofa-turned-bed, hands not quite retreating from their place around Castiel’s shoulders even after the other man has settled into a somewhat comfortable position.

“The angels,” Sam answers Kevin’s unvoiced question as he rushes to the cupboard, presumably for some first aid kit. “Trailed us—Cas took the blow—“ Sam explains at the same time as Dean barks, “draw up some wards!”

Which is… a stupid instruction, really. The bunker is well-protected by age-old protective wards. It is probably the safest place on earth in terms of defending supernatural threats.

So Kevin says the only appropriate response a grade-student-turned-Prophet-of-the-Lord presented with useless, panic-induced command: “What.”

Dean’s head snaps up. “Dick angels?! Protective sigils?!” He snarls, “You know some, right?!”

“But,” Kevin replies eloquently.

He honestly wants to explain his thought process—bunker and pre-existing sigils and all—but Dean looks nothing short of  _livid_. Kevin feels like the only thing stopping Dean from chopping Kevin’s arms off and using them to draw the protective sigils himself is the ex-angel bleeding in his arms.

Kevin is suddenly reminded that the man glaring at him has survived  _purgatory_  for a year, and he is rooted on the ground in genuine  _fear_.

Kevin’s brain is building up the courage to bolt, but before he can do so Sam reaches out and grabs Dean by both his shoulders, forcing him to look at his brother.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, steady, and Dean freezes. “We’re at the bunker, remember? It’s already protected. We’re safe.”

Dean’s eyes search Sam’s face for a moment, almost delirious, his breathing frantic. And then Sam squeezes, and Dean blinks, swallows, and nods.

“Okay?” Sam asks, softer this time, and Dean closes his eyes.

“Okay,” Dean replies, voice hoarse, and Kevin sees Dean’s hands tighten their grip on Castiel. Castiel makes a pained sound, and Dean’s attention is immediately drawn back to the fallen angel.

“First aid,” Dean says without looking up and this time Kevin manages to mumble,  _on it_ , before running towards Sam to assist the hunt for the first aid kit.

Kevin wishes, like he always does, that everything is going to be okay.

 

-

**3\. Privacy**

The angels catch up to them again around a month after Castiel’s abrupt arrival to the bunker. One violent encounter at the supermarket in the nearest town—though, thankfully, lacked victims—was enough to make everyone restless again. Kevin sees Castiel less and less, and even Charlie—who is only around every weekend—notices.

The thing about the bunker is, it has _impeccable_  acoustic, voices and sounds traveling effortlessly through the crooks and arcs of the corridors.

It is this very acoustic that allows Kevin one night to hear Castiel’s light footsteps from his room, followed by Dean’s heavier, more harried ones. The sounds of the footsteps halt in unison, and there’s a low  _thud_  as something heavy hits the floor. A backpack, probably.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going,” Dean says in a low growl, obviously completely forgets that he isn't supposed to wake anybody up, and his voice is loud enough that Kevin just can’t ignore it.

“This—“ Castiel’s voice is more restrained, hushed. “This is for the best, Dean.”

“Don’t you fucking—“ Dean snaps, loud, and then seems to catch himself. There’s a pause before he says: “you know how well-protected this bunker is,” and, “Sam and me can hold up pretty fine against angels, okay,” and, quiet, “don’t do this to me, Cas.”

There’s another pause, and Kevin has abandoned all pretense of trying to sleep. He strains to hear the next word, pressing his left ear to the wall almost comically, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t because the next word is heavy and  _painful_.

“Dean.”

It is soft, but it feels like a slap in the face.

Kevin retreats from where he is standing, but not fast enough that he doesn’t hear Dean say, breathe, plead—

“Cas,” the word falls, and shatters. “I need you.”

Kevin buries himself in his blanket and puts his hands over his ears.

Those words aren’t for him to hear.

Those words aren’t for  _anyone_  to hear.

 

 

-

**4\. Dress Code**

“Jesus Christ on a bike.”

Blasphemy doesn’t seem like an appropriate response to seeing a (former) angel of the Lord, but Kevin thinks it is all fairly justified, considering the aforementioned angel is  _buck fucking naked from the waist down._

Castiel is also wearing a cheap band T-Shirt that is most definitely  _not_  his, and Kevin refuses to think too much about it. Or at all.

“Good morning, Kevin,” Castiel says, as if there’s nothing wrong and  _he’s wearing a pair of pants_ , and Kevin is pointedly  _not_  looking at his—thing. Junk. Jesus,  _how_  is this his life.

Before he can explain the inappropriate nature of  _not wearing pants_  in the kitchen—he is  _not_  eating breakfast here in the near future—Dean saunters in with a bed head and a sloppy grin. The sloppy grin of someone who has just had the best sex of his life.  _Not_  that Kevin is thinking about it.

“Morning,” Dean says, beams like Christmas has come early just for him, and then proceeds to  _palm Castiel’s ass cheek._  Castiel makes a sound that is more aroused than annoyed, and turns to face Dean with a look that is a hundred percent arousal. 

Kevin is going to need  _so much therapy_  after this.

“Gross, guys!” He says heartily as he stands up from the chair and slowly backs away, “get a room!”

Dean just barks a laugh before planting a kiss on Castiel’s mouth, and  _yeah_ , this is it. Kevin would rather walk five miles to the nearest diner than being exposed to so much skin by people he is not interested in seeing so much skin from. 

“Don’t you want your breakfast?” Dean calls out when he practically  _runs_  away from the kitchen.

“Don’t have sex in the kitchen!” He instead says, and he does not,  _does not_  want to hear Dean’s response.

Because the universe hates him, he still hears it. “Not making any promises!”

So  _much_  therapy.

 

 

-

**5\. Conduct in Shared Spaces**

“Sam, please, for the love of everything,  _do something_. Sure, it was cute at first, and it’s like,  _fucking finally_ , I know. But I don’t want to walk in on them in the living room! In  _our_  living room! And the kitchen!  _Again_! For the third time this week! And it’s not even  _Tuesday_.”

Sam looks at Kevin with the expression of a man who has tried everything bar killing the two parties causing the problem, and when  _Sam_  can’t do a single thing, it is immediately clear that there’s nothing they can do about it.

They will just have to live with this.

There’s the sound of music reverberating through the bunker, and Kevin catches sight of two bodies pressed against one another, swaying in unison to the music. He thinks he has never seen two people who fit with one another more than these two, their clashing edges have smoothed down and molded together over the years.

Kevin is oddly fine with the prospect.

 

 

-


End file.
